As we all know there is a strict proscription against discussing politics on the Hash which is even stricter concerning the Hash Trash. I intend to honor this commitment to the letter and would not dream of referring to recent mysterious “movements” in the White House / Gudang Putih in Washington D.C., U.S.A. The fact that there are now two new sets of “families” on staff after the recent re-re-re- shuffle will not even be tangentially referred to. They are of course the four Bag brothers: Scum, Slime, Sleaze and Douche (very close to the “first’’ family) and the two brothers and sister team making up the Wit family: Dick, Fuck and Nit.

A mention of the two new “spin” Doctors recently added to the payroll you could not prise from me with hot bamboo slivers for fingernail removal purposes. Dr. No (e.g. “No, we do not know any Russians, and they are the ones we have never met with or spoken to.”) and Dr. Who (e.g. “Vladimir Who? Never heard of him. Leader of the Klu Klux Klan? Who the hell is that?) Nor will there be even an aside about the addition of the three Generals at the Pennsylvania Ave address: General Chaos, General Disorder and General Confusion. As to the man himself in the tinfoil hat, which rhymes with coup de tat (or does it?), he continues to tweet like a teenage girl with his tiny little hands “It’s gonna be great, huge, I guarantee it.” Not really. So there, you see. You didn’t hear it here first, and if you did – don’t get excited. It’s just an alternative fact or two.

So, um, about the Hash. There was one last week at Pura Dalem Tarukan in Pejeng, an astute choice by Harriet Spank My Monkey and a great job by co-Hares Cane Rat and Organ Grinder. It has been many a long month since a BHHH2 Hash shoe has set sole on this site. I’d almost forgotten it, but it was a really good run. Right from the git-go just standing around in the generous wantilan overlooking the temple grounds with their soaring meru, elaborate mandala and bale was diverting enough.

The course itself was as pleasant a ramble through rich paddys full of splashing and quacking rafts (Teams? Packs? Paddlings? Herds? Flocks? Heaps? Piles?) bunches of cute brown Bali ducks. And the weather cooperated eerily well, the sky filling with more and more billowing grey cumulus (Cumuli? Finiculi? Finicular?) rediculi, rediculaaaar! Sorry, I’ll stay serious for more than two paragraphs when I die, promise. So it was beautifully cool and lightly breezy through the whole affair and not the hellishly hot, hat run that we thought we were in for leaving the badlands of Sanur. The coup de grace (literally the “cut the crap”) of the entire shebang (literally ”she has sex”) was a long, extended and utterly charming valley through the most numerous large hanging ferns and drooping bamboo stands this little black duck (literally “Daffy”) has ever laid eyes on either side of the sheer walls. The trail then gave out on a picturesque dell by a flowing stream between mossy stone walls and a weir crossing of stunning quaintness (literally “quisn’t-ness” as there ain’t no ain’t in the dictionary (see title).

I have no complaints about the run whatsoever-wait! Before you think I’ve lost my mind, except the two loooooonnngg checks (I caught both like the canny old veteran I am) and the loooooonnnngger upward incline on a flagstone path, which finally did me in. This says more about me than the run, though. Seriously folks, a terrific run. And the circle was pretty good fun too ,what with Organ Grinder down-downing a bunch of blokes who claimed they could “shoot their missiles” from North Korea to Guam. Not me however, at my age I’d be lucky to “splash’’ down in the Sea of Japan.

Muddy Man seems to be warming to his task as new Hash Master and the Grand Master gave us “The birds in the trees said ‘dammit, stuff it, fuck it’ when they heard that Cock Robin had kicked the fuckin’ bucket”. Jangle Balls made us identify the old favorites disguised with ludicrous lyrcs such as “Fistin’ By The Pool” (“I’m a fistin’ fool”). Dire Straits, if you must know. The beer hung in there ‘til the bitter end and we all left sated and happy campers (about 65 strong). Oh! And how could I forget the 600 sticks of Bali’s best satay – unanimously praised by the most hardened Hash food cynics (me, myself, I, and Cane Rat). So, it was good, as they say in the Good Book.

See you anon and anon and on on to Hari Merdeka and M. Man’s birthday run this Saturday.